Interview with writer Christine Betts

A few days, six months, a year, several years, multiple visits over many years, vicarious visits …  we all do our French affairs differently.

Today, I am chatting with Australian author, Christine Betts, whose first visit to Paris at the age of twenty-two was the bittersweet incarnation of a non-attainable joint project. We connected recently through our writing and our common passion for France. Read on for Christine’s story:

Thanks, Christine, for agreeing to this interview. 

Can you tell us a bit about yourself? Hi Catherine. I’m a Gold Coast girl on the outside and a little bit French on the inside.

How and when did your love of France begin? I fell in love with the Madeline picture books as a little girl, fuelling a passion for France, art, and books.

 You have travelled many times to France. Do you have a couple of stories from these trips that you could share with us?  Do you have any long-term French plans? Like a lot of people, I would love to spend a year in France sometime in the future. We have spent a month here and there but 12 months, to see the seasons, would be lovely. I was planning

my upcoming 50^th birthday celebrations in the countryside outside Paris but that may have to change now. 

In 2006 we spent a month wandering across France with our caravan. It was lovely to see our son making friends with children from all over Europe while us mums and dads lazed in camp chairs chatting and sipping cold drinks. We are still in contact with some of the families. 

My favourite Only-In-France memory of that trip was seeing the quirky entertainers who ply their trade at campgrounds across France in the summer. A cat and miniature goat circus? Only in France!

Your books are set in France. Is this an obvious choice for you? How do you go about researching your story lines? My first attempts at writing were my journals from my early trips to France. In 2005, I wrote a memoir called From There to Here via Paris. My sister is the only person who has read it and probably the only one who ever will. I think the reason I love Paris is that I went there with a broken heart and just being in that beautiful place showed me that life goes on. 

I seem to be perpetually working on a Paris-themed memoir of some description because Paris has been there at every important point in my life.

In 2017 I shifted gear, deciding to write a fictionalised account of a 2012 “girls’ trip” to Paris. I lucked across an historic B&B right near quai de la Tournelle with views of the towers of Notre Dame from the rooftop terrace. My first novel Hotel Déjà vu grew from that kernel of an idea, and the B&B inspired the grand mansion in the story, the home of the de la Roche family, even down to the pool in the basement. 

I had great fun using my own memories, photographs, and souvenirs to flesh out the story, but also used Google Maps a little. I know the inner areas of Paris well, but Maps was able to fill in little details. 

My second novel is mostly set in the Loire, so I was able to draw on that magical summer with my little boy in 2006. They might be in a crumbling chateau in the Loire, but of course, the characters take off to Paris for the night to stay in my imagined hotel, L'Écrivain – the Writer.

What writing projects do you have on the go at the moment? I am about to launch Alia Henry and the Ghost Writer (releasing tomorrow June 16), but I am now working on a story in the same ‘universe’ as Hotel Déjà vu. A couple go in search of the fabled time-portal to fix the terrible mess they have made of their lives. That’s a fun little side project! My passion project right now is set in modern-day London and Wiltshire, with an interwoven story set in Neolithic Gaul and England. Paris was always my favourite place in France but as I get a little older, I have developed a love for the French and English countryside, and this story includes stone circles and Celtic legends. As is in everything I write, there is a ‘supernatural’ element in this story but I’m not giving any spoilers. 

And just for a bit of fun: 

If you could choose to be any character from any period in French history, who would it be? And why? Ooh that’s easy! I would have to pick my name-sake Christine de Pizan, a French renaissance novelist who is the first known woman in France to have made her living solely from writing. She was a feminist and a bad ass. She wrote and published protest poems, utopian fiction about a city inhabited only by women, and a celebration of the achievements of Joan of Arc. I love her work because like Christine, my goal is to write female characters who are interesting and intelligent but above all, real.

Thanks so much Christine. I look forward to hearing of the progress of your new release and staying in touch.

Christine’s books are available in print and digital versions on Amazon here

You can follow Christine on

Instagram:… https://www.instagram.com/paristimetravel/

Facebook:… https://www.facebook.com/ParisTimeTravel/

Another way to get pregnant?

I laughed out loud this morning and it felt good. Silliness really, political incorrectness even, but it helped shape the start of my day.

"Apparently, in some place around the world, girls are being told that swimming in public pools can make them pregnant."

Listening to the car radio and concentrating on the twists and turns of the road, I grimaced and prepared to do an indignant head shake and cautious eye-ball roll, at what I imagined to be the forthcoming deformed ideas of a chauvinistic and repressive regime.

"Yeah, you know the red line that chases the Olympic swimmers during the televised events," a listener called in with his quip, "if it catches them, then they're pregnant."

My own red-line-pregnancy-test moments swam before me. I guffawed. Not even apologetically. I love clever people and I love clever, funny people even more.

So, with my day having started well, I expected it to continue in the same vein. Jobs, work, exercise all done, it was time for my warm shower reward. When the bucket catching water for the spring beans was full, the time was right. I committed. This was not a toe-testing timid trial, I was in and under completely.

"Mmm, nice and war...freezing!" There were only two of us at home, both supposed to be working. Why did he choose this moment to wash out the coffee pot (or so I discovered when I emerged with my shower story some minutes later)?

The up, the down. Life ... and only a very tenuous link with my French-themed blog today. The best that I can come up with is that we live by a lake in France and this is a story based around water.

Good enough? I hope so.

'But you are in France, Madame' available for purchase here

The power of the word

Early days in France. Bakeries were so tempting.

A flooded home during a bushfire crisis? Should this have been the hint that 2020 was not going to go to plan?

Rarely is there no-one in my sister's home. Hers is a busy place, with four children, partners, grandchildren and friends all happily bumping into each other regularly, randomly. For the hose under her bathroom sink to burst was in itself rather extraordinary. Don't these events occur every twenty or so years, if ever? For it to do so when all were out, preparing to hold hands and sing Auld Lang Syne was a wee bit mischievous. This; however, was not the adjective that my sister used when, flush with the peace of a day - and night - away, she opened her front door and sloshed through ankle deep water. No slow leak here, this show-stopping soak had pulled out all the plugs at its own private New Year's party.

For those of you who read my blog, you'll know that my last post was a bit impetuous, a lot angry. I wrote, and it helped, but I resisted multiple attempts from the outside world to talk in person, including from my family. I just wasn't ready. A few days ago, months after the bushfire flood event, my sister was finally able to unpack some of her salvaged items. My book was amongst the pile and, before placing it back on to the bookshelf, she paused to flick through the pages.

Grey skies

"Helloo..."

My phone screen lit up. I picked up and answered, "I was just thinking of you. Thanks for your messages. Are you free to chat?"

"Yes!!"

It was affirming, reassuring, nice to talk, plus she told me a story. That of my book on her bookshelf.

"You know the section where you were diagnosed ... and you mention that one of your stubborn sisters Skyped you every day even though you refused to look at her and pointed the computer screen at your couch instead?"

"Yes."

"Well, I know that that wasn't me that you were talking about. But, having re-read that, I knew what I had to do. I had to keep sending you messages. I just had to keep trying."

Blue skies ahead

Again, thank you everyone who took the time to contact me after my outbursts here and on Instagram. I didn't always get it right. In fact, without thinking I chose my words badly on one occasion and unthinkingly caused some pain.

It made me reflective. Words are powerful, but bring responsibility.



   

I couldn't outrun the fear

Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six strokes per minute... it wasn't working. The rowing machine remained implacable and emotionless. I couldn't outrow the fear.

The doctor was having none of it.
"You're heart is beating too fast."
Confirmed shortly thereafter by the triage nurse at the hospital where I was sent.
Too much uncertainty? Too much news? Or my husband's 1st April biopsy for prostate cancer that was no April Fool's.

We were far from family when I was diagnosed with cancer in France.

Cancer, why can't you just stay the #$% away from my family?And, to present during yet another time of family distance...cruel.

France. That's my answer.

Asked the question, "What is your greatest achievement?" obvious answers come to mind. But, whether I have middle-child status to thank for this or not, I have always hated conforming. So, clear and clichéd answers I give you not. In fact, I don't even like the question. Why do I have to have just one? I guess you could turn all pedantic on me and state that the word 'greatest' was used. Q.E.D.



France. That's my answer. Getting there, being there, living there. It was one of the most - and least - obvious things to do at that point in my life. I had ticked off study, work, travel, home, marriage and children and might have simply continued down this path. What would that have looked like? Next step in my career? Nicer car? Home renovation? BBQs on Saturday with good friends? Increasingly brief communal family moments? Dissatisfaction with the mundane or the routine? Who knows? Perhaps, I am being overly dramatic, overly pessimistic but I know that I would have struggled with continuing the trajectory that I was on.

“It was just a normal morning. Almost exactly five years ago. I was making tea in the kitchen. Bobby was still in bed. And we get this knock on the door. I opened it up slowly, and saw the police standing there." 

My daughter kept speaking. I closed my computer and sat back in my chair. My son kept playing with his Rubik's cube but edged closer to where she was sitting on the deck, separated from us by a metallic fence.

"They went straight back to the bedroom, and walked up to Bobby. I heard them ask: ‘What’s your name?’ And he said, ‘Bobby Love.’ Then they said, ‘No. What’s your real name?’

Even my husband looked up from what he was doing.

We had arrived on the deck individually, no doubt hoping to give some moral support to my daughter in self-isolation.

"It didn’t make any sense. I’d been married to Bobby for forty years. He didn’t even have a criminal record. At this point I’m crying, and I screamed: ‘Bobby, what’s going on?’ Did you kill somebody?’ And he tells me: ‘This goes way back, Cheryl. Back before I met you. Way back.." 

Despite it being a sunny day, despite the fact that we were outside, each cradling high-tech devices, her reading aloud of one of the stories from the Instagram account of @humansofny  felt more like a scene from a London living room during the Great War. She was our radio and we were tuned in attentively.

Since that day, Covid 19 confinement has imposed aeons of family time: multiple opportunities for talking, sharing and debating. Not unlike when we went to live in France.


My intention in writing this is not to reduce the seriousness of the health pandemic that we are living through now, but back then, on arrival in France, there was fear, there was uncertainty, there were moments of intense frustration and even anger, there was little outside help and a lot of the information coming through to us was hard to understand.

There was also shared joy at minor successes, solace in diary writing and time to chew the fat around the dining room table or squashed into the car for our hour-long morning and afternoon trips to school or, thanks to an empty social calendar, to sit and have a coffee under the quince tree, or play 'pin the tail on the donkey' (map of the Haute Savoie region) in order to select a destination for a family outing...

Just being there, living there, making it through each day was a great achievement and, with the exception of not being able to choose where to go, not unlike this period in our lives.

But, back to Bobby. What did happen 'way back', before he met Cheryl? I will give you the pleasure of heading to @humansofny to find out. (This excerpt is Part 1/11)

To read more of our family's French story, click here for your copy of 'But you are in France, Madame'.